


He Dreams of Red Herrings

by orphan_account



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Dream Sex, F/M, Heavy Angst, Mild Smut, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23021116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I don't want to say anything about this. Just read.
Kudos: 17





	He Dreams of Red Herrings

Five o’clock traffic is, arguably, the worst part of his day. Combine every citizen of the damn city getting off of work at the exact same time with his incessant road rage and you get about twelve minutes of either seething or explosive anger depending on how his workday was. Today seems to be one of the former with Javier sweating underneath his grey suit despite the blasting of the shitty airconditioning of his Ford Escort and shouting, “You could’ve fucking made it!” at the van ahead of him waiting to turn right. 

He speeds down the suburban street, past chainlink fences and rusted mailboxes, waving at the kind, old lady living next door as he pulls into the driveway. A red bike lays scattered on his lawn. The garage door opens with a horrible squeak and he mentally reminds himself to spray some grease on the rafters later. 

He slides out of the car, suitcase in hand and pressing on the garage door opener before he shuts the door. Darkness blankets him, but then he pulls on the door handle and is welcomed with the only reason why he’s so impatiently eager to get home. 

Chicken sizzling on a heated pan is what greets him first, the delicious smell invading his nostrils and the sound a familiar comfort. Then he feels arms wrap themselves tightly around his legs, a head buried into his thigh. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, picking his daughter up and kissing her forehead.

“Brother’s being mean,” she pouts, shrill voice muffled by his shoulder.

“What did he do this time?”

“Keeps pulling my hair when I’m not looking…”

He watches his son sheepishly turn the corner from the hallway, clearly already knowing he’s in trouble. “Hey,” Javier says sternly, a warning rather than a punishment, “stop teasing your sister. You’re her big brother, you’re supposed to take care of her.”

His eyes dart to the floor as he comes forward. “Sorry, dad.” He doesn’t really mean it and tomorrow they’ll be back at it again. 

“Dinner’s ready!” Javier lets his little bundle of joy go as she begins kicking and struggling to race her brother to the kitchen. 

She emerges from the doorway—his wife and partner in crime—one hand covered by a blue oven mitt and a horribly pattered apron tied around her waist. Her hair is piled atop her head in a careless knot, her gorgeous face void of any makeup and big, round glasses sliding down her nose. 

“Baby,” he breathes, gliding over to her and pecking her pink lips. 

“I made your favorite,” she whispers against him.

“Thank you.”

She pulls back, eyes shining with love. “You don’t ever have to say that to me.”

Their bedroom is immaculately clean—she must have spent the day organizing and cleaning. Shoes are taken off and placed on the rack in their closet, his jacket and tie removed and hanged with the others, his button-up and pants tossed into the hamper in their bathroom. He reappears at the table, his children already stuffing their faces of chicken, green beans, and potatoes, in jeans and a t-shirt. 

His plate is placed at the head with a healthy serving of everything and a glass of fizzing soda next to it. Dinner is spent in amicable conversation; the children relaying their adventures at school, his wife explaining they might need to replace the livingroom lightbulbs soon. Javier listens as intently as always, testing his daughter on her spelling skills and his son on his math skills. 

Soon, they run off with ice cream cones in hand as she shouts, “Don’t make a mess!” They share a knowing look, both chuckling at their children’s antics as they finish their meal alone. She asks him about his day to which is replies with vague answers, not wanting to bore her with the monotony. Instead, he asks her about hers, wanting to hear her talk about herself and the adventures she’d gotten up to. 

It’s just as monotonous, he supposes, but then she’s giggling through a story of accidentally knocking over a display at the store, red blossoming along her cheeks. Javier loves her clumsy self very much.

They spend the rest of their evening playing outside and watching television on the couch before it’s time for bed. 

“No!” his daughter wails as his wife carries her to the bathroom for bathtime. 

“Why does she always scream when it’s bedtime?” his son asks, wincing at the sounds muffled through the bathroom door as Javier walks him to his room. 

Action figures line the blue walls on various shelves Javier put up himself along with a few haphazard posters of characters and sports celebrities pined by thumbtacks. A bookshelf full of trophies sits in the corner next to a crate spilling with sports equipment. Next to that is his bed covered by simple blankets that Javier pulls back.

“You use to scream too, you know.”

An indignant look crosses his face as he sits down next to his father. “Did not.”

“Did too!”

He spends this time alone with his son, asking him about baseball, about his worries and troubles, sometimes just having ‘guy time’. He wants to be there for him, to be a good father for him to look up to. Moments replay in his mind when his wife (his girlfriend at the time because she’d fallen pregnant before they married) would have to hold his cheeks with both hands, a sternness and determination furrowing her brows as she’d insisted he would be a wonderful father. The doubts are still there, but fleeting now.

“Lights out in an hour,” he reminds him as he leaves to read his daughter to bed.

His favorite girls lay wrapped together in the tiny, metal-framed bed covered in pink, fuzzy pillows and stuffed animals. Butterflies and fairies and unicorns have overtaken the room and Javier remembers the four coats of paint it took to cover up the previously dark red walls. Now it’s a lilac purple with each outlet decorated by a princess cover. Whatever his daughter commands she shall receive. 

“Is there room for me in there?” he jokes, struggling to clamber over the both of them until he’s flush with the wall. 

“Movement getting too difficult there, old man,” his wife teases, mischief twinkling in her eyes and hidden behind a smirk.

“Yeah, old man!” his daughter parrots, laughing as he tickles her in retaliation.

“One day you’ll be old too and you won’t be laughing anymore!”

“No, I’m gonna stay young forever! You’ll see!”

He doesn’t like to play favorites, although some days it’s easier to do so than others, so he always reads her to bed. Sometimes it’s a new book, other times it’s the same book he’s read about a dozen times, and, like tonight, it’s finishing the passage from a previous story because she’d fallen asleep too fast, drool oozing from her mouth as she’s passed out from the activities of the day. That’s usually what happens.

And that’s what happens again as he looks over at the sound of snoring, seeing her face squished into the pillow. He chuckles, pressing a feather-light kiss to her head before plugging in her nightlight, flicking off the overhead, and leaving with her door left ajar. 

His wife has changed into plaid pajamas that are most definitely his, but she looks much better in them anyway so he doesn’t mind. He never minds. The tv is playing reruns of some cop show as she lays in bed, a book in hand and avidly reading. It’s mainly just white noise for them.

Night has fallen behind the curtains, crickets chirping and cicadas buzzing just outside the walls. The lamp on her end table is low burning, casting a large shadow of her form against the beige paint above the headboard. Javier removes his jeans, discarding them on the floor so he can wear them again tomorrow after work, before climbing into bed next to her.

His intentions are clear as he begins trailing a finger along the smooth skin of her arm, smirking as he notices goosebumps erupt in its wake. However, her eyes don’t fray from their flickering from word to word of the pages of her book. 

It’s when he pops open the first button of his shirt that she’s wearing that she finally indulges him her attention. “What are you doing?” she questions, eyes narrowing and suspicion lacing her words. 

“Nothing…” he replies coyly, popping open another button. And then another.

She doesn’t protest as he slides his hand down her clavicle, molding around the flesh, thumb brushing over her hardening nipple. Her book is forgotten as she drops it onto the table when he leans over to brush his lips against her neck. He feels the vibration of her voice as she moans her pleasure of his tongue and lips sucking a mark into her skin—another mark she’ll have to hide behind the veil of her hair. He loves it when she wears it down. 

Her hand grips tightly to his hair as they maneuver lower on the mattress, his body hovering over hers on strong limbs, lips trailing down to close around her budding peaks. Deft fingers undo the rest of the buttons, unceasing even as she cries out, “Oh, Javi.”

“Careful, honey, the kids just went to bed.” 

He keeps his eyes locked with her hooded ones as he drags his teeth across the expanse of her stomach, down lower as he pulls off her pants and underwear. He kisses along the insides of her thighs, along the scars and stretch marks. A finger slides into her, then two, crooking upwards and sliding in and out. 

He watches as her chest begins heaving, her mouth biting down on her fist in order to keep the sounds of pleasure at bay. But then he brings his mouth closer, tongue swiping out to lick her sweetness and her back arches off of the bed. With the combined efforts of his ministrations, she comes quickly and softly and he drinks it all up. 

“I hate how good you are at that,” she says, laughing to herself for climaxing so soon.

“The sounds you were making beg to differ,” he challenges.

He pulls his shirt over his head and his underwear from his legs. He’s already hard enough, cock straining under the anticipation and impatience of what’s to come. Her arms wrap around his back, bringing him in close, bare chest to bare chest, kissing him sweetly and deeply. He pushes in slowly, his sharp inhale smothered by her lips. 

The sensation of her warm and tight around him is almost as overwhelming as his love for her. He keeps the pace slow and steady, wanting to savor this moment and every moment hereafter of this symphony playing between them. It’s loud in his ears, beautiful and moving. A shiver runs down his spine and soon they’re chasing their highs together, names and gasps and moans all apart of the orchestra. 

They fall asleep entangled in each other’s arms and Javier knows there is no place he’d rather be.

~ ~ ~

Javier wakes to cold sheets and a raging headache pounding against his skull. His eyes blink open, squinting at the offending bright light of the morning sun peeking through the broken blinds of his window. Empty and half-empty beer bottles litter his end table, some having fallen to the floor at some point. 

He takes a minute or two sitting on the edge of his bed trying to erase the images of his dream. The reality into which he has awoken is too painful to handle paired with a fanciful imagination, so he wills the vividity away with leftover beer. The acrid taste is awful on his tongue and an effective distraction.

He pulls on a pair of unwashed jeans, padding down the hallways into his tiny kitchen. Dishes overflow the sink, crumbs litter the counters, and he opens to fridge only to see a sad half-carton of milk, a million more bottles of beer, and various condiments for food he’ll never buy. 

Sitting onto the rackety chair of his makeshift kitchen table, he takes a bite of a mushy apple as his breakfast for the day. Eye glaze over with numbness as he looks around his apartment, brief, flickering images of children arguing over the tv remote, of a woman lounging on the couch. He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking away the pain, and opens them again to find the small tv pushed into the corner and the raggedy couch dotted with stains and tears. 

Pounding on his door snaps him out of his reverie. “Peña! Are you fucking ready, yet?” Murphy. “Messina’s gonna have your ass if you’re late to another briefing!”

Oh, right. This is his life. Not that other one that is far out of his reach.  _ Fucking remember that, _ he berates himself.


End file.
